


The Mitchell Continuum

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Comment Fic 2016 [39]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cameron Mitchell on both sides of the continuum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny smidgeon of dialogue straight from the film.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, any, time travel + taking the long way home."

**1929.**  
  
Cam was exhausted, hungry, and heartbroken. Everyone he’d ever known and cared about was gone. Dead. Daniel - gone. Sam - gone. Teal’c - gone. Vala - gone. O’Neill. Gone gone gone.  
  
He lay on the floor of the sandy warehouse and tried to get his bearings. He was in Egypt. It was 1929. He had to be on the _Achilles_ when the Stargate was en route to America. He heaved himself to his feet, dusted himself off. He had some serviceable Arabic from his time in Afghanistan, although Pashto had been worth more down on the ground. He needed food and clothes and to blend in, to mess up the timeline as little as possible until Ba’al tried to mess it up too, and then he’d have to mess up that clone and his Jaffa but good.  
  
Until then - food. Water. Clothes. 1929 was the year of the horrible stock market crash, wasn’t it? If only he’d paid better attention in high school history.  
  
Cam turned and looked up at the giant ring, the one he’d stepped through over two hundred times, the one he had yet to step through, and promised.  
  
For Sam, Daniel, Teal’c, Jack, and Vala. He’d do this the long way.  
  
**1939.**  
  
“Who are you?” Captain Mitchell asked.  
  
Cam shrugged. “Well, you might say I’m a friend of the family.”  
  
“What happened here?”  
  
“That could take a while to explain.”  
  
The bosun raised his eyebrows. Captain Mitchell glanced at Cam, who shook his head, and the bosun was summarily dismissed.  
  
“Now, this is going to sound strange,” Cam began. He’d cut modern slang out of his speech a long time ago, but it was still at the tip of his tongue. _Weird_ wasn’t a thing yet.  
  
“Son, I just saw glowing water appear in a ring of metal, saw that glowing water blow a hole in the side of my ship, and then men step out of that glowing water. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.”  
  
“You have to swear not to tell anyone.”  
  
“I swear. And -”  
  
“Mitchells don’t swear lightly.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“I’m Cameron Mitchell, and I’m your grandson. From the future.”  
  
**1945.**  
  
“Is it strange?” Everett asked.  
  
“Just a little bit,” Cam admitted. The baby he was bouncing in his arms was his own father. He was a cute kid, though. Ash had looked just like this when he was a baby.  
  
“This is it, isn’t it?” Everett studied Cam. “You’re going to move on.”  
  
“Maybe this is just a bit too strange for me. And I can’t settle down too long, can’t get too caught up in - anything.” Anyone. “Don’t want to disrupt the wrong thing.”  
  
“Send me a postcard from every town, city, and village - no matter how small,” Everett said.  
  
Cam nodded. He handed the baby back and scooped up his pack. “Thanks for everything.”  
  
“No, thank you. For saving me, and my family.”  
  
Cam smiled crookedly. “Enlightened self-interest.”  
  
“I’m glad to know my son raises such an honorable man.” Everett pulled him into a one-armed hug. “And remember -”  
  
“Postcards,” Cam said. And he left the farmhouse he’d called home for a lifetime, that this timeline’s Cameron Mitchell would joyfully call home for another lifetime.  
  
**1959.**  
  
Jack O’Neill as a seven-year-old boy was very neat and wholesome-looking, wearing denim overalls and a striped t-shirt, tossing a baseball at the side of a building. For such a skinny little kid, he had a great arm.  
  
“Hey mister,” he called out, having noticed Cam watching. “Wanna play a game?”  
  
“I don’t have a mitt,” Cam said. He wasn’t supposed to linger too long anywhere, disrupt the timeline.  
  
Jack shrugged. “You got hands, don’t you?”  
  
Child logic was nigh-indestructible sometimes. Cam set down his pack and stepped into the fenced-off lot.  
  
“Go long,” Jack said.  
  
“Isn’t that for football?” But Cam obeyed.  
  
Jack really did have a great arm. He didn’t say much, focused on the fly and spin of the ball, occasionally warned Cam when he was going to try something new.  
  
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”  
  
“A ball player,” Jack said. He eyed Cam’s gray hair and beard. “You’re pretty good. Were you a ball player?”  
  
“Thanks,” Cam said, “and no. I wasn’t a ball player. I was an Air Force pilot.”  
  
Jack paused, ball in hand. “Really?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“What’s it like? Flying?”

Cam leaned in, lowered his voice. Jack leaned in too.  
  
“It’s the best feeling in the world.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Do you think I could be a pilot?”  
  
“I know you’d be an excellent pilot,” Cam said.  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“You’ve got quick hands. A pilot has to have quick hands.”  
  
Jack tossed the ball up and down a few times, considered. “You think so?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
Jack considered a moment longer, and then a woman hollered in a language that Cam hadn’t heard in a long time. Irish.  
  
“Be right there, Ma!” Jack hollered back. “Thanks for the game, mister.” And he dashed inside.  
  
Cam scooped up his pack and kept on walking.  
  
**1973.**  
  
Daniel Jackson looked terribly small and somber in his black, ill-fitting suit, standing next to Nicholas Ballard, listening to some priest drone on and on. In fact, Daniel looked miserable. Cam knew that after the funeral, Ballard would take Daniel to a diner, and he’d have waffles, and he’d learn that his only relative had no desire to look after him, and he’d spend the rest of his youth in foster care.  
  
After the small crowd dispersed, Daniel stayed behind, staring at the headstones. Ballard retreated a respectful distance.  
  
Cam shuffled forward to lay a flower on the Jackson headstone.  
  
Daniel, blond and blue-eyed and already bespectacled, peered at him. “Did you know my mom and dad?”  
  
“I know they were brilliant people,” Cam said.  
  
“They were Egyptologists,” Daniel said. “They found cool stuff.”  
  
“Claire was a linguist.” Cam remembered at least that much from conversations with Daniel. He could barely see his teammate in this solemn, heartbroken little boy.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Do you want to be an Egyptologist when you grow up?”  
  
“And a linguist.”  
  
“Sounds like a cool plan. Figure out who built the pyramids.”  
  
Daniel frowned. “The Ancient Egyptians built the pyramids.”  
  
Cam raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes,” Daniel said, but he didn’t sound sure at all.  
  
“Good luck, Daniel Jackson,” Cam said, and walked away.  
  
**1975.**  
  
Samantha Carter was sitting on the sidewalk sniffling when Cam found her. She was walking a Major Matt Mason action figure back and forth across the sidewalk.  
  
“Hey, kid. You okay?”  
  
“‘M not a kid.” Sam wiped her nose with the back of her hand.  
  
“Sorry, ma’am. You just looked upset.”  
  
“My brother’s being stupid,” Sam said.  
  
“How so?”  
  
“He says girls can’t be astronauts.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
Sam stared down at her doll. “There are no girl astronauts.”  
  
“So be the first girl astronaut when you grow up.”  
  
Sam sighed. “There aren’t even any girl astronaut dolls.”  
  
“Maybe one day, after you’re an astronaut, they’ll make an action figure out of you.”  
  
“You think they would?”  
  
“I think they would. Although you know what’s better than an astronaut? A space explorer.”  
  
“There’s no such thing as a space explorer.”  
  
“So be the first space explorer.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Well, first, you’d probably have to learn about space.”  
  
Sam gazed up at him. “I shouldn’t be talking to strangers,” she said finally.  
  
“You’re right. You’re a very smart girl, Sam Carter. Good luck out there in the stars.” Cam waved at her and kept on walking. He was halfway down the block before she shouted after him.  
  
“Hey, how did you know my name?”  
  
**1988.**  
  
Cam hung back, leaning heavily on his cane, and watched Frank and Wendy Mitchell congratulating their oldest son, who’d just graduated from high school. Cameron Mitchell had been accepted into the United States Air Force Academy, and he was going to do his family proud, carry on the fine Mitchell and Griffith tradition of military service.  
  
“Godspeed,” Cam whispered, “and good hunting.” He watched young Cameron hug both of his parents, ruffle his little brother’s hair, and knew his mission was finally complete.  
  
The nurse from the retirement home bundled him back into the van, and as he started to fall asleep to the rumbling of the engine, he knew he’d never wake up, and that was all right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Any, any, send me a postcard from every city, town, and village - no matter how small."
> 
> Cam Mitchell looks at postcards sent by his namesake while he's recovering after the crash.

“What are these, Mom?” Cam stared at the array of old and faded, yellowing postcards lying in the decorative tin.

“Your Grandpa Everett saved them for you,” Wendy Mitchell said. She was sitting beside Cam’s hospital bed and trying to look brave. “They’re from a friend of his. We named him after you, actually. The man’s name was Cameron. He was on the _Achilles_ with Grandpa Everett, and by some accounts actually saved the ship when it was boarded by enemies. Went traveling a lot, so you never saw him, but he promised he’d send postcards from everywhere he went, no matter how big or small. At first they were addressed to your grandpa, and then your dad, and the newest ones are for you. Figured you might enjoy them while you’re resting.”

A bunch of dusty old postcards? When SG-1’s AARs were waiting for him? But Cam couldn’t say that this mother - classified and all that. So he smiled and kissed her cheek. “Thanks. I’ll definitely look them over.” At the pictures, anyway.

“Let me know what you think.” Wendy patted his hand, and then she stood up, left the room.

Cam waited till she was gone before he set the tin aside and flipped open the newest AAR that Sam had sent for him.

Reading about losing Daniel - or even imagining losing him - was damn rough, and Cam had to set the report aside, careful to close the folder so no one saw its contents by mistake. Cam closed his eyes, forced himself to breathe deeply, wait till the memories of Banks dying behind him passed.

He opened his eyes and saw the tin. Opened it.

First postcard was black and white, featured a Chinese woman and an Indian woman. Singapore.

_Everett, The roti prata here is amazing. If you ever make it here - if you ever set foot out of Kansas again - you have to try it. - Cam_

Cam flipped to the next one. Broken Bow, Nebraska. Some grazing cows and a farmhouse. Like all of Kansas.

_Everett, It’s so quiet here. I didn’t know anywhere could be this quiet. It’s amazing. - Cam._

Someone had arranged the postcards by date. Old Cam had gone on a whirlwind tour of the United States, hit every state and its capital and some small border towns - apparently he’d walked or hitched for most of it - before heading off to see Asia. Then Europe.

_Everett, The Berlin wall is both impressive and depressing. Don’t think this is what our boys fought for. It’ll come down, though. 1989. Put money on it. - Cam_

Apparently Old Cam had been a gambling man.

 _Frank, When you come to Italy, you have to try the gelato. Doesn’t matter what flavor, though pistachio is traditional. Eat some at least once. Be brave. - Cam_ The postcard was of the David in Florence or, as it was called in Italy, Firenze.

As the postcards progressed to color, they were almost exclusively addressed to Cam’s dad, most of them with advice about food or restaurants or cool music, as if Dad would ever go there.

Except…

Cam flipped back to the first postcard of Florence. Italy.

Hang on. Dad had been stationed at all of those places. Every one of those places.

Cam stared at the array of postcards that described precisely the timeline of all of Dad’s postings, only decades in advance.

There were postcards in between - Waterford, Ireland, a note about how crystalware was a great anniversary gift for a lady; Cascais, Portugal, a warning about the nude beaches for prudish Americans; Baguio, Philippines, a suggestion about nice gifts to purchase from the Ifugao woodcarvers; Bangkok, Thailand, a description of the wonders of the night market - but somehow Old Cam had been to every single place Dad was posted, in the order he was posted to them.

And then Cam spotted the first postcard addressed to him. His hands shook, because it had been sent in 1959, from Chicago. (A note about baseball, and The Simpsons - which _didn’t even exist back then_ \- and hotdogs.)

There was another, from 1973 in New York City. (A note about museums, waffles, and Central Park.)

And from Clearfield, Utah, in 1975. (A note about Antelope Island, astronauts, and Major Matt Mason.)

The final postcard was from about a week before Cam had graduated from high school. It was addressed to him, and it was postmarked from Denver, but it was from Colorado Springs.

All it said was, _Be careful out there._

Somehow, Cam knew that Old Cam hadn’t been referring to the Academy.


End file.
